


an ill kept front yard

by capnhanbers



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Kissing, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Pining, awkward start, bed sharing, blugh idk i'll add tags as i need em, both men are a mess in their own special way, discussions of horror, not awesome communication skills, post-159, safehouse, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26809120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capnhanbers/pseuds/capnhanbers
Summary: Jon didn’t know how to stand, didn’t know how to occupy the same space as this man, it had just been so long.  Even before Lukas, how much time had they spent alone together?  What did he even know about Martin?  What did he even like about Martin?  A coach-ride conversation about music taste hardly made up for the four years he hadn’t cared to learn.---Basically a lot of Jon adoring Martin and having no idea how to say so.  Another Scottish cabin fic, ur welcomerecommended listening:Tallahassee by the mountain goats
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 157
Kudos: 656





	1. day 1

**Author's Note:**

> wussup i've had this sitting in my google docs for probably 8 months. i got stuck because i intend to have this cover the whole duration of the safehouse-days, but this is just such a neat little first night i had no idea how to transition away from it, so i'll try dividing it into chapters. it'll be a vignette structure when all's said and done, each chap covering a different day in the safehouse. hmmmmmmmmmm i have nothing else to say in these notes. jmart makes me happy.
> 
> [i drew a tiny doodle for a scene from this first chap!](https://mod2amaryllis.tumblr.com/post/631022994578374656/oh-motherfuckeroh-shit-a-scottish-safehouse)
> 
> [and HOLY SHIT check out this incredible fanart by ester-gal!!!](https://ester-gal.tumblr.com/post/631163162992984064/did-the-last-scene-of-the-first-chapter-of-this)
> 
> [tumblr is mod2amaryllis](https://mod2amaryllis.tumblr.com/)   
>  [twitter is also mod2amaryllis i am a monolith](https://twitter.com/mod2amaryllis)

Jon was pretending to sleep.

Four hours into a coach ride, six hours since escaping the Lonely,  _ countless _ hours since he'd even had this kind of opportunity to rest, and yet he felt more awake than he had in weeks. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was whatever horrid energy he'd siphoned from Lukas. Or maybe it was just Martin.

Martin, sitting next to him, arms inches apart. Martin, with earbuds in and phone rested limp in his hands. Martin, silent aside from the occasional sigh and rustling jacket.

Martin, just...there.

Jon’s forehead was cool against the window, a light shower vibrating droplets through his skull and painting a gray haze across barely-open eyes. The coach only had a few other passengers sitting several rows away, and he didn’t know how to handle this kind of quiet. The silence of the institute was different, heavy and deliberate, not this white-noise thrum of mundanity. He felt farther away from his life’s horrors than he had in years. All in the span of a few hours, all because of a clattery coach ride and the man sitting next to him.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The man sitting next to him...god.

Was it cowardly, pretending to sleep like this? Was he avoiding Martin? After months of aching from the distance, was he honestly not going to talk to him? 

Jon had gotten better at talking. He hadn’t had a choice between Basira’s constant grilling of his mental state, Melanie’s confrontations, and Daisy’s unexpected warmth. Forged in guilt and the tense camaraderie that comes from living together through such bleakness, he’d grown. He was apologizing. He was verbalizing. He was even speaking softly about nothing-topics, radio shows and card games and Thai restaurant preferences.

In the weaker moments, when he was alone in his office and the filing shelves loomed like prison bars, he’d sometimes wished he could show Martin. He’d think about the man he was before the Unknowing--just starting to care, just starting to say so, but still characterized by the bitter person who'd first stalked through the archives, silencing jokes just by walking into a room and thinking niceties a waste of time. So much about that man had changed. In monstrous ways, yes, but there was a new clarity, a desperation to cling to those trapped with him. If he hadn’t almost died, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to tell Martin how he felt, or how he was sorry, or how much he’d enjoyed the discarded poetry way back when. That lonely, miserable part of him wanted Martin to be  _ proud _ . Proud of the infinitesimal improvements he’d made. How pathetic...pathetic that it took a coma to get him there, pathetic that even after waking up, he didn’t have the option. 

Martin had been too far away.

Jon felt Martin’s arm shift. 

The unreality of it snapped him harshly back into his body. He tensed, mortified at the surge of emotion in his chest and the frantic internal refrain of  _ He’s here he’s here he’s really here… _

“You okay?”

Jon lifted his head to meet Martin’s concerned look, and just the sight rendered him thoughtless.

“Yes,” he replied. He cleared his throat, adjusting so he wasn’t leaned against the window. “Yes, just...a lot on my mind.”

“No kidding,” Martin said with a dry laugh.

“H-ha, right, right, I...I guess that makes sense.”

For an instant they just looked at each other, on the edge of grimness and humor. Martin’s almost-smile was overwhelming. Jon couldn’t keep looking at him without risking vulnerability, and god forbid he just himself  _ be vulnerable _ for once in his life. He started to get his phone out just for some excuse when Martin’s hand came into view. Jon blinked at the offered earbud, then up at his raised brow and tilted head.

“You like Laura Marling?”

Helpless under the eye contact of the man who was  _ right there next to him _ , Jon stammered, “I-I don’t know who that is.”

“She’s got kind of Joni Mitchell vibes, really cool folk singer, and...oh c’mon.” Martin’s smile started to twist as he gave Jon an incredulous look. “You know who Joni Mitchell is.”

Whatever trembling shyness Jon had been fighting was suddenly snuffed out by indignation. That hadn’t been why he was staring silently at Martin, like an idiot. He said, “What, yes, of course I know who  _ Joni Mitchell _ is, I’m not...I  _ do _ know some artists, Martin.”

“Just checking,” Martin snickered. “Never can tell with you.”

Jon almost had it in him to pout, but instead he blurted, “I had  _ Blue  _ on vinyl  _ and  _ cassette, I’ll have you know.”

“Seriously?” Martin’s eyes widened, and that damned smile still hadn’t left him, had only strayed closer and closer to fondness with every word from Jon's mouth. An unwelcome distraction. "You're a vinyl guy?"

Jon went a bit hot. He hadn’t really meant to share, just the automatic no-you've-got-it-all-wrong reaction brought it out of him. “I--yeah. Yes. Why is that so surprising?”

“Dunno, just…” He shrugged, looking down at his lap. “I guess I don’t...know that side of you? What kind of music you like, all that.”

Lukas’s jabs floated through Jon’s mind. That’s right. They knew so little. There’d never been time, there’d never been a reason.

So he stammered, “I-I like a lot of the seventies folk singers.” 

Jon almost faltered when Martin’s eyes met his again, but he was determined. 

“Nick Drake, Roy Harper, Sandy Denny and Richard Thompson, Cat Stevens, of course Joni Mitchell, I ah...I had something of a vinyl collection in uni.”

“You?” Martin was turned fully toward him now. “Ok, hang on, let's be perfectly clear. You're saying you, Jonathan Sims, were a music snob in uni?"

“I honestly don’t know why this continues to shock you,” Jon huffed, flushing and deliberately ignoring the insult.

“I always pictured you as just the...y’know, the stuffy academic type. Argyle, glasses, shushing people in the library.”

“ _ That’s _ \--” Jon froze with a finger in the air. He furrowed his brow. “...Okay that’s not too far off, but--”

Martin sputtered a laugh, and Jon’s fluster started to blossom into something else. He looked away to hide the wry, growing smile that threatened to betray him while Martin said, “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t tease.”

_ I don’t mind, _ Jon thought without saying.

“So you’re a seventies guy?”

Jon perked up at Martin’s open expression. “I, yes, I-I mean, not just classic folk like that, but…” He was watching from the corner of his eye for any sign that Martin wasn’t really interested, but there was still just that smile. His voice gained momentum as he went on, “There’s just this...this tragedy to that time period. A-and I’m not trying to romanticize it, but so many of those artists were really suffering behind the music. Nick Drake died before he gained any notoriety. Same with Judee Sill, and god, you wouldn’t  _ believe _ what Fleetwood Mac went through to produce  _ Rumors _ , they were...they were hiding all this pain, turning it into art before giving into it, it's...it's horrid. But we still have their music. And i-it's like, some of them weren't understood while they were alive but the things they made hold so much meaning for people now, people who could've loved them if they just--"

"If they'd been born at the right time."

"Yes!" Jon was gesticulating at this point, leaning back to give the ceiling a passionate glare. "But maybe the art was only so good because of the time it was made, and the pain they endured, and...and maybe that means the art was never worth it. If the art's the only thing that gave their lives meaning, that's wretched! Which makes the music better! It all compounds in this grim tangle of beauty and guilt while you're listening and…"

He trailed off. His hands were hanging in some absent motion as the infodumping registered. Slowly, his eyes slid over to Martin, suddenly wary of the disinterest he was sure he'd see, cheeks warming in embarrassment.

Martin was watching him with an attention so gentle, it made all of Jon ache. Whatever else he was going to rant on about artistic tragedy died softly in his chest. For a moment he could only look back, then he cleared his throat and let his hands fall to his lap, his gaze following the motion.

"S-so. Right, that's, ah. That's why I like it. Folk rock."

Martin didn't respond right away, and when Jon gave him a self conscious glance he blinked, seeming to startle out of something.

"What?" Jon grumbled.

"N-no, sorry, I was just…" Martin rubbed his neck, obscuring part of his face. "I just haven't...heard you talk like that. Not in a while. I almost forgot."

"Forgot what?"

Jon could only see Martin's eyes, so he couldn't tell for sure if the reddened skin around them was a blush. Martin only answered with a weak laugh and Jon wanted to push it, was filled with a need to know what was in this man's head, one so recklessly hungry that for a moment he couldn't breathe, but before he could ask, Martin was offering an earbud again.

“If you’re an expert, you can tell me how Marling measures up,” Martin said. He still didn't look at Jon as he tentatively took it from his hand.

“I...alright.”

Martin let out a breath as he closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Jon kept watching him for an indulgent moment, rolling the earbud in his fingers. Noting the differences, realizing he hadn’t really looked at Martin in...had he ever looked at Martin? Deliberately? Had he allowed that for himself? More than the stolen glances he denied were happening, more than watching during awkward conversations or near-death experiences. Had he ever catalogued the laugh lines, the mark on his ear that might've once been a piercing, the generous splash of freckles...

Martin’s eyes slit open, and Jon flushed hot. He quickly put in the earbud and hunched toward the window, allowing a few minutes for his heart to calm down before the music even registered.

It took several more minutes for him to decide he did like Laura Marling.

\---

For all the supernatural experiences of the last twenty four hours, none were as surreal as approaching Daisy’s safehouse.

Jon hadn’t expected something so cozy. The ramshackle cabin was surrounded by rolling fields, a picket fence in need of painting, and a tangle of bare rose bushes that had completely taken over the garden. The sun had already set behind the hills, and twilight colored the wood siding a soft purple. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen something so peaceful. He refused to let his eyes wander to the man beside him. He refused to acknowledge that he, too, would probably be twilight colored.

He and Martin paused at the end of the path, and Jon could feel something between them start to buckle. It scared him more than it had any right to, considering what they’d just survived.

“Well,” Martin started to say, “it’s certainly--”

“Adequate.” Jon pressed onward, lugging a duffle bag that was too heavy after a full day of travel. “Fine for laying low, for a while.”

“Right. Yeah, okay...” 

Martin’s voice tapered in a way that made Jon wince. The stupid, unwarranted fear grew inside him, but he forced himself to turn around to give Martin a look he hoped was reassuring. He saw him twilight colored. He saw sleepy light filter through the edge-wisps of his hair. He saw the cobblestone path winding out behind him toward the waning sunset, and his chest grew tight. He swallowed a wondering sigh.

“Scenery’s not bad,” he said.

The smile he got back turned him red from the inside out, and Martin agreed, “Not bad at all.”

\---

“So I’ll take the sofa then.”

Jon looked up from his unpacking. He hadn’t even made it past the living room, but Martin was already walking back from down the hall with a chipper smile.

“What?”

“Found some sheets, I’ll just fix up the sofa for myself,” Martin prattled without looking at Jon. He went into the kitchen and started opening cabinets, seemingly very invested in the non-perishable situation. “Should be plenty warm with the wood stove.”

Jon was confused. Quietly, he stood to check down the hall as Martin went on.

“Let’s see...can of peas, can of beans, another can of beans... _ more  _ beans, wow.”

He passed a bathroom, a closet, then he reached an open door at the end of the hall. He looked in at the single bare mattress on a metal frame, and instantly it clicked.

“Okay so we’re now at eight cans of beans. Three baked, two pinto, three black...wait, wait, scratch that, four black. Nine cans.”

Jon stood frozen as the implications that must’ve hit Martin moments ago rolled through him. It wasn’t a big cabin, he didn’t know why he was surprised to see just  _ one _ bedroom, just  _ one _ bed, but on the long charter from London he hadn’t considered the possibility. He kept staring as his knuckles turned white on the doorframe and his face went hot.

Jon had moved past a lot of his physical reservations, more from necessity than anything. For the last few months he and the others had lived in the Institute, and sleeping arrangements weren’t exactly spacious. They’d brought in extra cots, but often he’d wake up to find Daisy squeezed in beside him, pinning him under his blanket, and he’d long since stopped minding it. He even appreciated it. There was a comfort to contact that he hadn’t always required, but lately he had to take those moments of human connection wherever he could find them, and they were all the sweeter for it.

But this wasn’t Daisy. It wasn’t his grandmother, it wasn’t Georgie, it wasn’t the one or two failed connections between, it wasn’t just a friend. It wasn’t just a bed.

Martin was still talking about beans. Jon set his jaw and turned to walk back toward the kitchen.

“Christ, does Daisy eat anything else?”

Jon rounded the corner to see Martin with his hands on his hips, regarding a counter full of cans. He frowned at the back of his head, at the strawberry-blond curls, duller than they’d been a year ago and ticked with white.

“What do we think? Baked?” Martin finally turned to smile questioningly, too quick for Jon to look away. “Our options aren’t great but I can still heat something up.”

Jon searched his face for just an instant, feeling the start of tension creep up between them, then said, “What do  _ you _ want?”

“Oh I think baked is fine, seems odd to just have black beans on their own and--”

“No, no, Martin, I meant…” He faltered, looking down and folding his arms. “You must be exhausted, after...well. If you want the bed, that’s--”

“Jon, it’s fine,” he assured, but Jon didn’t buy the bright tone. “How long have you been sleeping in the office now? I remember what that’s like. You need it more than I do.”

“But you--”

“Please.” Martin’s smile cracked a fraction, and Jon felt his face flare up as the awkwardness spiked. “I insist.”

Jon stared as Martin turned back to the cans, the wrongness of it all making him fidget. He didn’t know how to stand, didn’t know how to occupy the same space as this man, it had just been so  _ long _ . Even before Lukas, how much time had they spent alone together? What did he even know about Martin? What did he even  _ like _ about Martin? A coach-ride conversation about music taste hardly made up for the four years he hadn’t cared to learn.

“You always do that.”

Jon’s own voice surprised him. Martin spun around again, eyebrows knotted and cheeks pink. 

“Do what?” he demanded.

The words had slipped without Jon's permission, but he knew exactly why he said them. Or...he Knew? It was hard to draw the line these days. He could pick out that same warm, apologetic smile at so many points, whether in vision or memory; times when Martin had given and given without daring to expect anything in return. Five years of warm, hopeless smiles...nearly thirty years of the same. Which scenes had he learned just by living, and which had the Watcher shown him? At the moment, he didn’t have time to theorize. Martin was looking at him with those grey eyes (they used to be bluer, didn’t they?) and he was quickly losing his nerve.

“Give up comforts.” His voice wavered, even more so when Martin’s face started to tense. He pressed on, “A-and I just...the last year, everything you’ve done, it’s been because of…” He stopped. Took a breath. “The least I can do is make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

“The least you can do?” Whatever remained of Martin’s smile fell away. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter, maintaining eye contact. “You literally just saved my life.”

“As if you haven’t been doing the same for the last two hundred twenty one days.”

Jon’s mouth snapped shut against the static; Martin blinked. Okay, so  _ that  _ one was the Eye.

“Jon,” Martin started, voice careful, “are we...talking? Now? It’s okay if we are, but--”

“We don’t have to. We can wait until--”

“But we  _ do _ have to, right?”

“...Yes. Yes, I suppose we do, just...” He’d been watching Martin all this time, and it was getting to be too much. He was remembering all the words whispered through the fog. If they were going to talk, it would have to be about  _ that _ too. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he was looking at the tower of cans behind Martin. “...We could eat first.”

Jon saw Martin’s body sag, which could’ve been relief or disappointment. 

“Right,” Martin sighed. “Right. So...baked?”

They were silent as Martin fiddled with the gas stove and Jon kept unpacking. They didn’t have much--clothes, some books, toiletries--and it gave him a few minutes out of eyesight. He could breathe easier. Though even just the sound of pots clinking and the sink turning on and off was cloying in a way it had never been before. Every reminder that Martin was  _ there _ , alive and cooking for him, made his mind turn toward a path he wasn’t ready to explore yet.

Dinner started just as quietly. Jon thought he’d go crazy from every scrape of spoon against ceramic, warring with both the desire to just  _ speak up _ , dammit, and the paralyzing fear that came with doing so. His bowl was almost empty. The words were swelling inside him. He took a breath.

“I do want the bed.”

Jon’s head popped up at Martin’s soft voice. He was staring down at the table, looking the most tired he’d let slip all day with purple bags beneath his eyes and slumped, heavy shoulders, and Jon wanted to hold him. Jon wanted to rush around the table and take him in his arms and watch those eyes close and know they were dreamless. He wanted to press his cheek against his hair and know what it smelled like. He wanted to grab his hand and feel it again, warm and solid and bigger than his. He almost did. His fingers twitched in his lap, and he looked away before the unexpected flood of affection could drown him.

“Alright,” Jon said, just as softly. “Alright.”

\---

For the rest of the night, it seemed like the chance to talk had passed. The exhaustion was settling over them and it was all they could do to put their dirty bowls in the sink and shuffle to the bathroom; Jon first, then Martin. Jon listened to the shower run as he dressed the bed and sofa. He was just laying an afghan over the cushions when Martin emerged from the hall, face red and hair wet.

“You’ll be okay out here?” Martin asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Jon said nothing, because Martin was in his space again and he couldn't look away from the droplets in his hair and the freckles still shining out from beneath his flush and good god he wanted to  _ hold him _ , but before that fact became noticeable he forced out, “Yes, yes, I-I can light the stove if it gets too...yes. I’ll be fine, thank you.”

“Right. Okay. And, ah, tomorrow we can.” Martin bit his lip, then did an awkward knocking motion with his fists. “You know. Go over...things.”

“Right.”  _ I want to hold you. _ “Sure.”

“Okay. So I’ll just…see you then.”

“Yes.”  _ No, don't go. _ “Yes, well. Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin's face changed in a way that made Jon's breath catch. He couldn't read him, but when he murmured, "Night Jon," it sounded like he meant something else entirely.

He left. Jon was alone. He waited a few beats after hearing the click of the bedroom door, and then plopped down on the sofa with a groan.

Palms pushed against his eyes as his thoughts were given room to grow frantic. He'd been questioning the awkwardness when they arrived, but now it was clear. He'd had so much time to think about Martin in the last several months, so much time to worry, but none of that could've prepared him for the physical presence. He was struggling with the knowledge that they were alone, temporarily safe, and together. Being  _ together _ ...what was he supposed to do with that? What was he supposed to do with the sudden, overwhelming realization that he wanted Martin with him, against him, as close as they could manage?

Minutes ticked by while Jon kept trying to sort himself. The quiet of the countryside only made the internal struggle louder, and despite fatigue, sleep was moving farther and farther away. He kept replaying events, sensations, words and wishes and hypotheticals that had plagued him for the better part of a year, now compounding all at once. Every thought could boil down to three words, even now.

_ I miss him _ .

Which really wasn’t fair. The distance was his own damn fault. The shadows of the sparse living room seemed to darken as Jon curled into himself, indulging in the self-destructive routines. If he’d been more prepared for the Unknowing, if he’d confronted Lukas from the start, if he was just...better. Hell, if he hadn’t been such an insipid prat to Martin from the moment he was promoted, then maybe there would be more to tether them together now.

_ “I see you.” _

Jon softened.

_ “Let’s go home.” _

He uncurled a fraction. He stared out from his horizontal position, replaying those words until his mind finally gave him a moment of clarity.

Martin was alive. That was all that mattered. He'd lost so many people, made so many mistakes, but for once...they'd come out the other end. It felt like cheating, like the will of fate would burst through at any moment and demand recompense. Like Martin could still be taken away.

Like he could lose him.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and shoved a pillow over his ears, as if that would do any good. He couldn't worry like that, couldn't submit to the fear and paranoia, not now. Martin was with him. They were okay. Exhausted and scared and awkward in a way that made Jon want to crawl out of his skin, but he was  _ there _ .

...Well. Not  _ there _ there. Several meters and a door separated them. The gentle clatter of moving through rooms was replaced with the dark silence of a night in an unfamiliar house. There was no hint of his presence, not a sound, no guarantee he wasn't…

Oh god.

Jon shot to his feet, blanket clinging around his legs as he tripped and stumbled through the dark to the hallway, barely managing to avoid knocking over a lamp in his haste. His socked feet stayed quiet as he rushed to the bedroom door, bombarded with thoughts of,  _ He's fine. I'm sure he's fine. I'll just check, then I'll sleep, then in the morning we'll talk and things will start to feel normal and he won't disappear and maybe if I'm lucky I'll get to hold him. _

He sucked in a breath. With jarring motions, he grabbed the doorknob, turning and opening more urgently than he'd intended, and--

Martin was  _ there _ .

Right there. Inches away, disheveled, wearing a face that was just as shocked and sleepless. He was there.

They each had a hand on opposing sides of the doorknob; Jon pushing, Martin pulling. It put Jon in a position of looking up at the bigger man, bodies angled toward each other and balanced on a collision course. Jon felt himself suspended in that moment far longer than the instant it took them to process what had happened.

"Oh," Martin breathed first.

"Um." Jon's voice cracked. He couldn't look away from Martin's eyes, redder than they were when they'd said goodnight. "Ah, I-I...sorry, are you--"

"S-sorry, sorry, I thought you were asleep, I was just--"

Their mouths snapped shut. Neither had let go of the doorknob. They were frozen, closer than they'd been since the Lonely, and wrapped in such a quiet that Jon was sure Martin could hear his heart pounding.

It was Martin who moved. He straightened and relaxed his arm without releasing the knob, looking down at Jon with a building concern and making him feel very small.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

Jon kept staring for a breath, another, then said, "I was just...j-just checking."

Martin's face went alarmingly blank. "On me?"

"Wanted to make sure you weren't...th-that it wasn't…" Jon had to close his eyes for a moment to compose himself, taking a firm inhale through the nose before forcing himself to look back up at Martin. "Are  _ you _ okay?"

"Oh I'm fine, I was…" His voice tapered out behind a hollow expression.

Jon waited. Martin was still blank. Jon leaned forward a hair, head tilted back to search grey eyes. He whispered, "Martin?"

“...H-ha.” A single laugh, quiet and humorless. Jon watched Martin’s face flicker between different stages of uncertainty until he whispered, "I'm sorry." His voice was strained; it made something urgent writhe in Jon's chest. "I'm not actually, ah...I was coming out to…I couldn’t hear you. And I didn’t know if--" He bit back the rest and looked away.

That was too much. The entirety of Jon's body suddenly lurched. He needed to react, close those last few inches, wrap him up in arms and reassurances, but he was still Jon. Still afraid. So the need pooled down into his hand, and it reached out to touch Martin's arm. Only the tips of his fingers brushed the fibers of his shirt. It could barely be called a touch, but with it, something gave.

Martin sobbed, sudden and ripping. The tips of Jon's fingers pressed through to the rest of them, then his palm, until he was gripping Martin's bicep with a shaking hand.

"J... _ nn _ ...Jon." Martin's voice was desperate, increasing in volume as he forced out, "Jon, I'm s-sorry, I just d-don't...please...I don’t want to be alone in here, I don’t...w-want…"

Jon felt his own eyes sting. He was such an idiot. There was one last second of hesitation, then he was holding Martin.

His arms went up around Martin's neck to pull his face down into his shoulder. The reaction was sloppy; the sobs grew louder and his hands clutched the back of Jon's shirt as he shook and shook and shook. Martin was saying words, indecipherable babbling interspersed with apologies, and Jon just held him tighter. He dared to press his cheek to Martin’s head, closing his eyes at the still-damp softness of his hair.

"I'm sorry," he murmured by his ear. "I'm so sorry, Martin. I should've known."

A year. Martin had been alone for a year, and all that time Jon hadn't been able to do a thing about it. He'd had his support--Daisy, Melanie, Basira--but Martin had resigned himself to isolation all in the name of protecting him. It wasn't fair. All he'd been through, the Unknowing, his mother...had anyone talked to him? Had anyone said anything kind, or checked on him? How long had it been since anyone touched him?

Jon’s fingers pressed up Martin’s neck and through his hair. How long since he’d been touched there? His other hand stroked circles into Martin’s broad back, anywhere he could reach. How about there? He nuzzled closer. How long since he’d felt someone’s chin against his shoulder? His view of the bedroom ceiling started to swim as he lost himself in the wondering, in the  _ sorrow _ of it.

How long since anyone had loved Martin Blackwood?

Jon would be willing to stay there all night, standing in the doorway holding Martin together, but he could feel the other man growing heavier the more he cried. He gave the back of his head a squeeze and hushed, "Hey, hey, okay. Okay."

"I-I'm so, so s-sorry, Jon, I c-can't…"

"I know. I know."

"I-I can still f- _ feel _ it, Jon."

The terror spiked inside him, but Jon fought it back. That wasn’t what Martin needed.

"W-what if I go to sleep, and when I wake up y-you're…"

Jon took a breath and pulled back, every cell in him protesting at the loss of contact. Martin paused in his crying, almost looking afraid, but Jon wasted no time taking both his hands and guiding him toward the bed. Martin's fear gave way to confusion, then finally panic when Jon started to lift the covers.

"J-Jon, you don't have to--"

“You said you don’t want to be alone.”

“I...I-I don’t--”

"I'll keep watch." Jon met Martin's eyes with determination. Still holding one hand, he gestured for him to get back in bed. “You sleep.”

"But you're…" Martin's face scrunched in misery, and the whine returned to his voice as he whispered, "But you must be so  _ tired _ . I can't ask you to--"

“You didn’t ask. I’m offering.”

Martin looked like he might try more protesting, so Jon seized the bravery that nighttime and crying offered and lifted a hand to his cheek. It seemed to do the trick. Martin’s wobbly expression firmed into surprise, eyes wide and barely glinting in the darkness as Jon’s other hand joined in to cup his face completely.

“Listen,” Jon whispered, ignoring the insecurity squirming inside him. “I was... _ am _ ...scared, too. That’s why I got up, actually, I had to know you weren’t…” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I’d appreciate it if you let me do this. For both our sakes.”

Martin stared back, and when he lifted one shaky hand to touch Jon’s he felt like he might start crying himself. But not yet. Not now.

“Okay,” Martin finally agreed. “Okay…”

He settled in beneath the covers, and Jon felt an awkward spike at the urge to tuck him in. Once Martin was down Jon sank carefully to the floor and sat with his back against the bed, facing the window.

“Are you comfortable?” Martin asked, voice still watery.

“I’m fine, Martin.”

Jon could feel the discontent in his silence, even more when he started to argue, “I-it’s just that I’d hate for you to...on my account, if you weren’t--”

Jon cut Martin off with a raised hand. An offered hand. Martin stared at it, then his hand slipped from under the covers and...Jon tried not to make it too obvious how relieved he was at the restored contact. He murmured, “I promise, I’m fine. I, ah...feel better, actually.”

“Oh.” Martin’s look was indiscernible in the shadows, but his tone made Jon melt. “Okay. Good. I...I feel better, too.”

“Good.”

The silence fell back over them, less encompassing now. Jon was able to stare toward the window and wonder at being able to rub his thumb over Martin’s hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

All the buildup to contact had scared him. Thinking it was so overwhelming, that he didn’t deserve it after years of cruelty toward this man who had only ever tried to be kind to him. It was one thing to grab him to save his life; holding him through the Lonely had been instinct, a matter of survival and unfiltered passion, impossible to over think. But choosing to touch him in the privacy of a bedroom, well...it should be terrifying. That’s what he’d expected. Sparks and anxiety. He hadn’t been prepared for the gentle reality, the softening of his whole body at the calluses on Martin’s knuckles, the breath he let out at the pressure of fingers. 

He hadn’t expected it to feel  _ right _ like this.

Jon was still left to his thoughts in the darkness, but they were so much quieter now. He kept holding Martin’s hand, zoning out into the distance and feeling some semblance of control. There would be no disappearing tonight.

Enough time passed that Jon started to get tired, but he wouldn’t sleep. He rolled his head back against the mattress and stared at the ceiling.

“Martin?” 

He could barely hear his own voice. There was no response, and he waited a beat, not really knowing what he’d wanted to say. It would come eventually. Such was his relationship with words lately.

“I missed you.”

Silence but for slow, steady breathing. Just him and Martin’s hand. He closed his eyes and let out a breath through his nose, wondering if he should allow the tears yet, if it was safe. He said it again, thicker but just as quiet.

“I missed you so much, Martin.”

Finally, with the truth of him released, Jon let himself cry.

And despite his best efforts, he fell asleep hours after, eyes blinking shut as they looked through the window at an impossibly clear night sky. When they opened and the stars had faded to gray and the air was wet with an early-morning chill, his hand still rested in Martin’s. The man had curled closer to the edge of the bed, and Jon’s head found itself rested close enough to his that strands of his too-long hair were pinned beneath Martin’s cheek.

Their faces were so close Jon couldn’t focus on Martin, so instead his hazy eyes rested on their hands. The rightness hadn’t ebbed within him. His fingers curled tighter, and his eyes drifted shut as birdsong wafted through the thin walls. Carefully, he let his head relax until it was cushioned by Martin’s curls, and counted the breaths falling against his cheek.

Jon stayed like that til sunrise, more than once thinking that if he could, he’d stay like that forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you wretched fools, you thought he'd get in the bed? HA. you think you know the meaning of slow burn well just you FUCKING wait. i have a reputation. a Curse. don't expect a kiss til chapter 85 i s2g


	2. day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh ho ho! (ง •̀_•́)ง martin time!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been like a month but i actually wrote this chapter so much faster than the first, which took. um. Half A Year. so i hope it's cohesive because my biggest dragon, my biggest pride, is p a c i n g babey!!
> 
> recommended listening: the entire [Cannot Be, Whatsoever album by Novo Amor](https://open.spotify.com/album/1KkBDNtkZDW8COUNKAWRPw?si=NBoskluPR2G_kj-vbNGgbw)

Martin had never forgotten that he loved Jon. He’d just forgotten how much.

His body had woken reluctantly, with muscles feeling lead-heavy and head pulsing in that prophetic way that made him fear a migraine down the road, but his eyes had popped right open. They were now fixed on graying hair and a burned hand, still rested gently over his. They’d ended up so close in the night, Martin was scared to move, scared to disrupt this impossible moment. Light from the window spilled over the sheets, just missing the man knelt beside him. He could hear the quiet breathing. He could feel the quiet warmth.

He’d forgotten.

No sooner had he let marvel settle into him that the guilt followed close behind. Jon had slept on the floor all night, just because Martin couldn’t trust himself not to dissolve. He’d be cold and sore, maybe even cross now that he didn’t have to worry about Martin’s blubbering. He’d have to make it up to him somehow. Apologize first, obviously, then find some way to…

...To…

The buzz of anxiety faded as Jon’s fingers flexed around his. The movement was spasmodic, involuntary, and accompanied by a soft noise deep in Jon’s throat. In frozen wonder, Martin watched Jon’s hand grip tighter, his head nuzzle closer. The movement was such that now, Martin could make out some of his face. He could see the easing of ever-present lines, the slack of his lips, the flicker of eyes darting behind lids. 

The sight made every part of Martin...dull. No, that wasn’t the right word, that was the word for his state of being for the last year. More than just the year...maybe his life? Certainly the life before the institute, the life before...well. This was different. Muffled, yes, but with an incredible heat underneath. Like the sun behind an overcast, just waiting to beam through.

Shit. Martin was going to start crying again.

He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Right. That was too much, then. Time to get up and regroup, away from this bedroom and the perfect person next to him.

Carefully, Martin pulled his hand away, rolling over as slowly as possible to keep the mattress still. He managed to get up from the other side of the bed without rousing Jon and crept around, rubbing his arms against the morning cold and resolving to go find his jacket, first thing.

...Second thing, actually.

He paused over Jon. He was drowning in a hoodie and sweatpants--something for the chill, at least--but it was natural instinct for Martin to take the blanket from the bed and slowly, softly drape it around Jon. The motion brought him to one knee, on eye level with the sleeping man, one arm practically embracing him as it positioned the blanket.

Martin stared. Jon breathed.

Seeing him like this, vulnerable and without the haze of fear that constantly tugged at his features, felt fake. He shouldn’t be allowed this. He shouldn’t be a witness to such peace, not after all of those nights in hospital rooms watching the same face, willing the same eyes to open, and gradually accepting that they never would. So part of him thought that this, whatever it was, couldn't be real. 

That same part of him didn’t realize what he was doing as he let go of the blanket, and moved his hand to brush knuckles against Jon’s cheek. 

Then Jon stirred.

Martin resisted a flinch as he pulled back, schooling his face into something hopefully normal before Jon’s eyes cracked open. Jon didn’t move the rest of his body as he blinked a few times, eventually turning those charred-wood eyes on Martin.

_...I love you. _

If Martin didn’t force himself to speak, he’d choke. So looking straight back at his bleary stare, he whispered, “Hey.”

The response was delayed a moment, then Jon’s morning-rough voice said, “Hi.”

Everything within Martin melted at that sound, distilling into a desperate soup of  _ I love you, god, I love you, I can’t believe we’re here, I’ve loved you for so long, I love you, _ so he stood. Quicker than was necessary, perhaps, at the way Jon’s eyes blinked wider.

“I’m going to find us some breakfast,” he said, managing a calmer tone than what boiled inside him. “You can take the bed, if you want. Sleep in a bit longer.”

It was only then that Jon registered the blanket around him. He looked down and clutched it tighter, giving a little grunt of assent.

“I’ll just come get you when it’s ready.” Martin turned to leave, desperate to isolate and catch his breath, and from the corner of his eye saw Jon shamble to his feet.

Crossing the bedroom into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, Martin felt the cacophony of his own adoration start to fade. There were walls between them now. He stood braced against the sink for a moment, eyes closed and head down and breaths coming deep and deliberate.  _ Okay _ , he thought.  _ Okay. Okay, this is...we’re...okay. _

Much of it was the Lonely. Following him from London, generating in his chest, protesting the  _ other person _ in his presence, in his sight, in his hand. Gone was the ease of retreating to his office, that instant relief of quiet and the confirmation that, yeah, everyone really was better off this way, with them one place and him another. It had never just been Peter corrupting him; there had always been that cold appeal skewering roots into his own heart.

But even then, even before, even in his mother’s house or in grade school or anywhere else he’d put himself out of the way, he’d always wanted…

Martin looked to the bathroom door.

...He’d always  _ wanted _ .

\---

Behind some dusty packs of instant ramen, Martin had found a carton of dehydrated hash browns and an extremely questionable can of Trex that he decided was worth the risk for one meal. A glob of it was just starting to sizzle in the pan when he heard shuffling behind him.

He hadn't left Jon for long, certainly not long enough for him to have fallen back asleep, but there he was in the kitchen doorway. The blanket was still bundled around him and his eyes were barely open.

"H-hey!" Martin chirped, "You're up then?"

Jon only mumbled in response, wandering to the small dining table and plopping down. He leaned back in the seat and stared out from the bunched up fleece with a deep frown, as if just existing this early in the morning was offensive to him personally.

Martin's smile tightened as he turned back to the stove. "You could've gone back to bed, you know. Curling up on the floor like that all night can't be comfortable."

"S' fine."

Martin hummed back, draining the hashbrowns and spreading them in the pan, grateful for the crackling that filled their silence.

He had to apologize. He couldn't just leave hanging the fact that he'd had a meltdown bad enough that Jon felt it necessary to watch over him. Pushing the spatula aimlessly around, he bit his cheek. God, his life had changed more in the last twenty-four hours than it had in five years of supernaturality; he had to address it.

"Hashbrowns?"

Martin barely contained a yelp at Jon's voice just beside him. He hadn't heard him get up. Still squinty, Jon peered over his shoulder, not as close as that morning but certainly closer than he'd be at work, accepting Martin's offer to brew him an extra mug while he was at it.

"Dehydrated," he said, forcing a recovery. "Found them in the pantry. Took a bit of unearthing, but I thought something other than beans might be nice for breakfast."

Jon grunted, then picked up the carton Martin had left by the sink. He must have seen the expiration date by the way his frown deepened.

"We'll pop down to the village today, stock the fridge," Martin supplied.

Jon just nodded, stifling a yawn and setting the carton down to turn back toward the table. The change in proximity had Martin letting out a breath. He listened to Jon settle and clutched the spatula tighter.

He could blame the Lonely, and he could be a little bit right, but it wasn’t that. It was  _ him _ . His voice, his eyes, his fingers...all the details Martin had spent years memorizing, then another year trying to forget. It was everything from the night before. The fear of being with him, the fear of being without him. The way Jon had held him, with so much determination that no amount of insecurity could convince Martin it wasn’t real, that it didn’t matter. Falling asleep knowing he’d be there. Waking up to find that, yes, he still was.

God...he’d  _ been there _ . No one had disappeared. There Jon sat, with his head leaning against one shoulder and his hair crowded up around him by the blanket, making real all those indulgent early fantasies of mornings and breakfasts. There he sat, looking back at Martin as confusion crept into his pockmarked expression.

Oh. Martin hadn’t realized he’d  _ actually _ turned to stare at Jon.

And just as Jon started to open his mouth, Martin spun back to the stove and said, “Well, ah, right, well that should be about ready.”

A pause from behind him, then, “Right.”

Martin made a show of finding plates, telling himself he would be an adult about this, that he’d serve up these well-expired hashbrowns and then they’d get right to it. He’d start the conversation. He would. He had to, so he would.

He managed to set the food down and sit with something resembling ease. He even received Jon’s raspy “Thank you” without so much as a blush. He picked up his fork and started to think of where to start, what to say.

Jon took a bite, and his expression slumped out of the quiet gratitude just a bit as he chewed.

“Did, ah...did you season this?”

The nervous musing stopped. Martin blinked, tried it himself, then matched Jon’s face. He sighed, “Nope, no I did not. Let me grab some--”

“That’s okay, I’ll get it.” Jon was already rising, the blanket left draped over his chair. Whatever embarrassment Martin started to feel was suddenly purged by the edge of a chuckle in Jon’s voice, and the way his hand dragged briefly across the table as he passed, toward Martin. A grain of wood closer was enough to warm him.

“You know...I haven’t been seasoning anything for a while, I think,” Martin admitted, talking through the sound of Jon opening cupboards behind him. “Haven’t really thought about it. Taste, and such.”

“But you’ve been eating?”

Martin turned at the insistence of the question. He caught Jon’s face for just a moment, open and intent, before he cleared his throat and turned back to rummage around for the shakers. Martin watched Jon’s now-aimless movements and frowned. There was always just a twinge of discomfort around discussions of his eating habits; it diminished the older he got, but there had been enough comments from his mother to sour things.

“Yes, I have, I mean...I meant I haven’t been, um...you know, it’s been more of a fuel thing, I guess.”

Jon didn’t answer at first. He turned with salt and pepper in each hand and returned to the table, holding them out for Martin. He started to take the salt first, but then Jon didn’t let go. Martin’s eyes flicked up to his face and were trapped by a dark stare once again, shadowed under knit brows.

“Just,” Jon started. He licked his lips; Martin’s eyes caught the motion, and he realized Jon was nervous. He forced out, “I know I, um, can let go of things like that when I’m...w-when I get caught up. And I wouldn’t want you to...I’d hope you wouldn’t…”

There was a moment, eyes locked and fingers met around the glass of the shaker, then Jon suddenly seemed to remember himself. He let go and sat resolutely in his own chair, not looking up even as Martin kept staring.

“...Seriously?”

Jon frowned. “What.”

“ _ You’re _ worried  _ I’m  _ not eating enough.”

Jon blinked, face tense. “No, I’m--I-I mean yes, perhaps, I...what, should I not be?”

“Just...a bit weird, coming from you. The man I had to physically drag to the canteen for weeks just to keep you from blowing away.”

"Wh--! I-I wasn't, you didn't…" Jon crossed his arms and gave Martin one of those withering looks he was mortified to admit he'd missed. "You didn't  _ drag _ me."

Martin crossed his arms too, a smile creeping up on him. "Might as well have, for all the effort it took. Mulling in the door, handing you your coat, taking your statements…"

One side of Jon's mouth quirked. "That's right," he said. "You really did pull a statement out of my hand."

"Just the one time," Martin hissed in that way you'd recount an embarrassment committed by a younger you. He dragged a hand over his cheek and shook his head at the ceiling. "God, I dunno where I got the nerve."

"I was surprised."

"Oh, I bet you were. Thought I was in for it, the way you tensed up."

"Oh...no, no that wasn't…"

Martin looked at Jon to see a dampening. His reedy arms crossed tighter, self conscious as opposed to indignant.

"I wasn't annoyed, I was...I appreciated it, actually."

Martin slacked a bit. “...Yeah?”

"Yes, I um…" Jon watched the table while Martin watched his left pointer finger tap against his arm. The man gave a tiny shrug. "I needed that, I guess. I needed to eat and I...well, in general, I need that. I need someone to a-actually, ah, take things from my hands. Otherwise I won't put them down."

The memory was visited differently now, the way Martin had come to know Jon. He really had been so anxious, holding that folder with a daring burn and watching the act register behind Jon's now-irrelevant glasses. Back then, he'd seen a scoff of annoyed defeat, but suddenly he knew better. Jon had strode past him. Had stopped in the door, turned and said, "Well if you're not giving me a choice in the matter." Now he could remember the specific frown, the specific tone, and assign the specific softness Jon always camouflaged so well. Staring across the table now, Martin saw that same trademark tenderness hidden behind a furrowed brow that tried very hard to look guarded.

And here, Martin realized, was his chance. A segue into talking about work and all its horrors. Everything that had stewed for five years, boiling from his eyes last night and prompting Jon to take his hand, touch his cheek. He could tell Jon that yeah, he had it figured out, he hadn't been eating well in a long time. He could talk. They could talk. Here was a line. He just had to catch it, open his mouth and begin.

Martin took a breath.

He passed Jon the shakers.

"You still need to eat," Martin said.

Jon hesitated for a moment, blinked, let something flash across his face that might’ve been the same train of thought Martin had just fled, then he took them. Fingertips lingered as he offered a little smile.

“Fine, but after this we’re getting some real food,” Jon sighed, sprinkling generous helpings of both as his expression shifted into mirth.

“And some tea.”

“Right. Because god help us if Martin Blackwood can’t have his tea.”

Martin laughed, took a bite, and then reached over for more pepper.

\---

The walk to the village wasn’t long, but it was chilly, and Martin wasn’t sure he liked the ease of familiarity it offered. They were both quiet aside from comments on the scenery, on a few distant houses that must be their temporary neighbors, maybe farmers? And it only left room for Martin to tell himself they’d talk. They would. The time would come, he’d apologize for last night, he’d address it and everything. The cold inside and out couldn’t deter him. Just...not right now. Not during this silent walk through the damp moor, with their hands in their pockets and eyes drifting from their shoes to the hills, but nowhere in between. No, this wasn’t the opportune moment at all.

Later.

A smattering of houses crept out of the village edge. Through them, a narrow road led back to the center of town where they’d first disembarked. Martin knew there were enough amenities awaiting them, a grocer and a payphone at least, and just when they were about to reach the center Jon cleared his throat.

“Martin?”

Martin tilted his head at the hesitant tone. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you...ah…j-just, would you mind making the phone call?”

“Oh. Sure? You, uh... _ you _ don’t want to talk to Basira then…?”

Jon only grunted at first. He had his back and shoulders lifted straight, causing his chin to drown in the furry hood of his nylon coat. Martin had been surprised to see that coat; a bit rugged for someone like Jon, he thought, who was typically all peacoats and scarves. Maybe he’d over-prepared for the Scotland weather? Not that Martin minded at all. The first sight of him with his hair spilling over the white fur trim had done something to Martin’s chest, and...that was all beside the point.

“Because honestly, she’d probably rather hear from you,” Martin pressed, meandering a bit on the sidewalk leading to the payphone. “We weren’t exactly close there, near the end.”

“I, um…” Jon stepped past him a few paces before pausing to rock on his feet. He shrugged, that big coat rustling with the motion. “I’m not...I’m not ready to talk to her, I think. About Daisy.”

“ _ Oh. _ Right, ah...god, Jon I’m...I’m sorry you--”

“I’ll just wait over there.” Jon pointed to a newsstand on the other side of the road, housing an elderly attendant and a couple morning customers in front. “Get us something hot to drink.”

Martin opened his mouth with the thought of pressing it, but sympathy shut him up. He could see the crease in Jon’s brow and knew this was hard for him to even admit. So instead he sighed, “It’s gonna be coffee, isn’t it?”

Jon took on the hint of a smirk. “Possibly.”

“Eugh.”

The quiet laugh Martin got in response was worth the price of coffee.

Squeezing into the payphone booth, Martin couldn’t help but be charmed by the old fashioned motif. There was a hint of pleasure as he dug around his wallet for the coins, fed them through, and spun the number wheel to Basira’s cell.

Four rings, then an abrupt, “Who is this.”

“I-it...Basira? Hi, yeah, it’s me. Martin. Uh, Blackwood?”

A pause. “...How are you calling.”

“A payphone. One of those old ones, with a directory on a chain. It’s actually kind of cute, it--”

“So you guys made it then?”

“O-oh, yeah. Got here last night, found the house just fine, now we’re in town for groceries. Thought we’d let you know.”

“Good.” There was a heavy sigh. “Okay.”

“So um...how are things? On your end.”

“Tense. Witnesses calling it a mass shooting, some injuries in the staff. Few of them mentioning that weird, stretchy monster thing. Lots of sectioned officers convinced I had something to do with it.”

“Oh, christ, Basira I’m--”

“I’ve got a handle on it. They’re a lot more interested in where  _ you _ two disappeared. Jon’s already got a reputation, being the creepy head archivist, and you’re listed in the company roster as Lukas’s assistant.”

Martin groaned, running a hand down one cheek. “Yeah, kind of figured that wouldn’t look great.”

“Just plan on a few weeks laying low, probably more. Wait and see if attention shifts toward Elias.”

“A few weeks?”

“That a problem?”

“Well, no, I mean it’s not like we have a choice, but...Jon’s whole...you know. His thing with the statements.” Martin looked out the phone booth at Jon speaking to the newsstand cashier, holding up two fingers. “I don’t know how long he can go without taking one. And I’m not about to let him loose on a town full of geriatric Scottish farmers.”

“Thought of that. Soon as I don’t have a horde of officers breathing down my neck, I’ll go in and get him enough to carry him over however long. Daisy should still have a P.O. box, just give her name at the post office. Alice Tonner.”

“Okay. I’ll check.”

“Good. Get back to me in the next few days.”

There was a finality to her voice, and Martin stumbled to say, “B-Basira, look I’m...Jon told me what happened. And I’m sorry about--”

“How’s he doing?”

Martin blinked. “Ah...Jon?”

“No, the other guy you fled the country with.”

“Right. Well, he’s um…”

He looked through the glass again. Jon was being passed two styrofoam cups. He handled them carefully as he turned away from the stand, as if he was trying not to spill even with lids on, then he looked up and caught Martin staring. Jon lifted the cups and mouthed “coffee” with an apologetic little smile.

“...He’s doing okay. We both are. Considering.”

There was silence, and Martin could imagine Basira’s resolute nod. “Right. Okay.”

“I’ll tell him you said hi.”

“Sure.”

A click, then Martin was left to take a breath while Jon carefully crossed the street toward him.

“I didn’t know how you take it,” Jon was saying as Martin emerged, “so I just grabbed a handful of sugar packets.”

Martin wasn’t prepared for all these little intimacies, like being handed a hot drink on a cold day as Jon looked up at him with something verging on shame, so he could only assure, “That'll be perfect, Jon. Thanks.”

Jon lit up a bit, and turned to gesture his cup toward a bench that was only slightly damp with morning. “Want to sit? While you suffer through it.”

They sat, again assuming that middle-closeness that was more than coworkers, less than...whatever else they were. Martin only dumped a couple packets in the black drink; his head was starting to pulse dull at his temples, and sweetness wouldn’t help.

“Bad?” Jon asked as he mixed his own sugar.

Mid-sip, Martin made a face. “Eugh. Yeah. Not great.”

“I don’t mind it.” Jon took a longer gulp with a shrug of ease.

“Well, no accounting for taste.”

Jon snorted, almost spitting over his lid.

“O-oh, sorry, sorry, um…” The quips were coming too naturally, and Martin still couldn’t read if that was allowed. “I didn’t mean--”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon said through a half-smile.

Martin blushed to realize he meant it.

“Been drinking a lot of it in the last few months,” Jon mused around sips. “I think Melanie was the one who turned us all on to it. Everyone except Daisy.”

There was a weighted pause. Martin continued to muscle through his drink and quietly hoped Jon would keep going. He hadn’t known Daisy well--hadn’t even  _ liked _ her, not remotely--but this was something about Jon. This was something he hadn’t been around for. The Jon he’d known before, the irresponsible office crush, would’ve never talked about a loss like her. But  _ this _ Jon might. Just the possibility made Martin ache.

“Basira says things are still up in the air.”

Jon said nothing, but Martin watched his fingers tense around the coffee cup. One nail scraped rhythmically against the styrofoam.

Martin kept his voice soft as he went on, “Wasn’t sure if you were going to ask about it.”

Another pause before Jon sighed, “Me neither.”

Martin almost said,  _ Do you want to? _ but the risk of that leading to more talking, to  _ the _ talk, made him hesitate. Still not the right moment. Though he was starting to wonder if his cowardice would ever reveal the right moment to him.

Jon spoke up first. “How is she? Basira.”

“She’s...I don’t know, she said she’s handling it, but I wouldn’t say she sounded  _ good _ .”

Jon kept scratching styrofoam. He nodded once, and the mirror of Jon saying, “Right,” in Basira’s near exact tone just reminded Martin that those two really had been in this together for months. He hated himself for his jealousy.

Burying that thought, Martin said, “Right. Well. Are you ready?”

Still looking down at his cup, Jon hummed an affirmation.

“We need to stop by the post office first, then we can get groceries.”

“For Daisy’s box. Should still be there.”

“How did you--”

“Ah…um, sorry,” Jon cut in, waving his hand in some embarrassed motion. “That’s been happening a lot recently, I...I can’t really control it.”

Right. All the quiet humanity almost made Martin forget their reality.

“It’s okay, Jon. I don’t think you’re...well...you’re not  _ hurting _ anyone by knowing things like that.”

“Still, just...I do try not to.” Jon sat up straight with a nod that seemed meant for himself. “Okay. You’re not going to finish, then?”

Martin blinked down at his still-full cup. He’d forgotten he was holding it. He frowned and said, “No. Gave it my best shot, but no.”

“Me neither.” Jon stood and stretched his arms out in front of him, and looking away from Martin he added, “More in a tea mood anyway.”

\---

“Let’s see, milk, eggs, bread…”

“Whole grain specifically.”

“ _ Yes, _ whole grain. It’s better.”

“Sugar?”

“The house had sugar.”

“Ooh...do we want to trust old safehouse sugar…?”

“...Good point.

Martin had the cart, and Jon was paced just ahead of him, face twisted in concentration since neither of them had thought to make a list. The grocery store was small, with tight aisles that would make passing impossible. There were only a few other people, making this trip with Jon feel remarkably private; yet another indulgence for Martin to contrast preconceptions with reality.

Jon was picky. That wasn’t terribly surprising. He muttered darkly about the poor spice selection and scrutinized every single product for imperfections by opening egg cartons, digging for the things placed all the way in back because they were "fresher." Shopping with him felt more like a mission than an errand, and helplessly, Martin was becoming endeared.

He was also building up a headache.

“No organization,” Jon was saying. “Baking shoved in with the boxed dinners, it’s chaos.”

Martin held back an eye roll. “Cultural differences, maybe?”

“Very funny,” Jon grumbled

“Listen,” Martin said, crossing his arms on the cart’s push-bar. “I can handle the shelves, yeah? Why don’t you grab a basket and meet me in produce? Divide and conquer.”

Jon gave Martin a searching look that was long and intent enough to throw him off. He blinked back, but before confusion could register Jon was nodding. “Fine. Any requests?”

"Can't go wrong with a banana?"

“Agreed.” And with another short nod, Jon ducked down the aisle and out of sight.

Martin breathed out.

Everything Jon did was precious to him. To a mortifying degree, in fact. The uncertainty he’d displayed at the post office; just as much of a millennial as Martin, despite the graying-academic front. The way he walked, always too brisk for the occasion. The cranky tone that was no longer sharp, but sweetly familiar.

He loved being with Jon.

So this was just...bad timing.

The headache flanking his eyes hummed a low throb over everything, so insidious in the way it soured him. Squinting against the light, trying to mask it, shoving down the seed of nausea that was just sprouting, Martin was moving farther and farther away from conversation.

It was no wonder he needed a moment. Just a moment to ride out another wave of dull, clenching pain. Just a moment to himself without trying to explain his state to anyone. Especially after such a calm morning...he didn't want it turning into another Martin pity-party.

He'd been running his hand along the shelves, deliberating between biscuit brands and leaving the decisions to autopilot. Something bland, for his stomach. 

Then, suddenly but without the lurch of it, Martin forgot what he was doing.

A cart with one stiff wheel was being pushed in front of him with hands that might as well have been his. The aisle was long and stocked with boxes. Just boxes. Labels of similar color, similar designs, irrelevant flavors stretched out before him. He took one, mulled over the ingredients without absorbing any of it, then let it drop in the cart with a muffled clang. Fluorescent strips overhead were a bit bright, he thought. Exacerbated this damn headache. He looked forward to going back to the house, turning out the lights, putting on some unplugged headphones just to deepen the silence. Being alone. That’d make him feel better.

Except...he was already alone. Martin’s sluggish gaze dragged up and down the empty aisle. Ah well. No one else needed shopping done, that was fine. Better, actually.

And then a thought came to him, the same one that had shattered him the night before once he realized he couldn’t hear Jon, couldn’t hear anyone:

_ This is nice. _

Martin sucked in a breath and clutched his chest. Sound rushed back to him, background buzzes like other carts squeaking, other shoppers chatting just one aisle over. He forced his breath to slow as his hands shook. The pain in his head was suddenly irrelevant.

He had to find Jon.

Trying to remember that  _ You’re in a store, Martin, slow down, don’t crash into some hapless grandma, _ he pushed the cart through to produce, desperately trying to quell all symptoms of what had just happened. He didn’t need this, not now. They didn’t need this.

Why had he dismissed Jon? Stupid,  _ stupid, _ he should’ve known he wasn’t...they weren’t...nothing was  _ normal. _ He should’ve known the trappings of it. How easy it was to slip, how the appeal had never left him. Maybe the migraine was clouding his judgement, but he should’ve known. He should’ve known!

Jon had his back to Martin, that enormous fur hood obscuring any expression as he surveyed the different breeds of lettuce. Martin swallowed a lump at the sight of him and tried to slow even more.

"Find everything?" Martin asked, voice just slightly strained.

Jon gave him a half glance. "Almost. Can't decide between romaine or…"

He paused, then turned to look at Martin fully.

"...Hey."

"Oh well anything's fine for me."

"Martin--"

"Especially if we're just putting it on sandwiches."

"Martin." Urgently, Jon closed the last few steps between them as his face fell into concern. "Martin it's…"

Martin could only stare, the slapdash recovery buckling as Jon read him in an instant.

"It's... _ on _ you, Martin. A-are you--"

"Snuck up on me." His voice stumbled over itself, small and forced. "It snuck up on me. I'm fine, it just…"

Before he could react, Jon grabbed his hand in both of his. Martin looked down at them numbly, Jon's brown skin contrasted against his; normally pink but now pallid.

“Aren’t you cold?” Jon asked, tone equally small.

“Didn’t notice.”

“Okay, okay, here.”

Jon started rubbing Martin’s hand as he looked around the store with a nervous determination, and without his eyes on him, Martin slumped. He kept watching their hands, the color returning too quickly to be natural. It wasn’t long before he could really feel the dry texture of Jon’s palms, the friction between them. They didn’t feel like the soft hands of a researcher. They’d seen work, and bore the marks to prove it.

“Can we finish shopping? Or should we go?” Jon murmured, eyes still darting.

“I’m…”  _ Not fine. Don’t say fine.  _ “I...I can finish, yeah.”

“Okay. Need me to take the cart?”

“No, no, I’ve got it. Let’s just…” Martin squinted against another surge of headache. Right,  _ that  _ was still badgering him. He sighed, “Let’s hurry a bit, I guess.”

Jon nodded, then let Martin’s hand slip away with an obvious reluctance. When Martin took the push-bar again, Jon stared for a moment. Bit his lip. Then with a knot to his brow, he put a hand firmly over one of Martin’s and assumed a position right at his side, nearly pressed together.

Martin looked down at his face, the resolute forward-stare, and willed himself not to break.

Throughout the trip, Jon didn’t let up contact. He grabbed groceries with one hand while Martin pushed the cart. They were surely a nuisance, taking up all the space in the aisles, knocking against each other whenever Jon had to reach for something. A few times Martin tried to help with the higher shelves, only to receive an agitated grunt and a tightening of the fingers clamped over his. Eventually he stopped paying attention to the items filling the cart. He just focused on that pressure, that warmth enveloping a single part of him.

When they were checked out, Jon spent an awkward second staring at the bags on the checkout counter, and it took Martin an additional second to realize he still hadn’t let go of his hand. He could practically hear the equation in Jon’s mind--how was he going to carry all these bags with one arm?--and it was almost enough to make him laugh.

“Here, Jon.” Martin gently extricated himself, surprised to feel the concern in Jon’s face reflected in his own chest.

“No, I can--”

Martin was already picking up bags. “It’s a long walk back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Just um…” Arms now full, he met Jon’s eyes and let slip some of the pain that fogged him. “Just stay close?”

A pause, then with an almost cartoonish urgency, Jon picked up the rest of the bags and stood next to Martin with arms pressed together. It wasn’t remotely good for walking, but they didn’t care.

Like the trip into town, the way back was quiet. Unlike that morning, however, Martin couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at Jon’s face. He was stony with concentration, eyebrows knit and lips sucked between teeth. Eyes forward. Their elbows kept knocking as the grocery bags swung, and he knew it was deliberate. Those erratic jabs against his sleeve kept him there. Kept him with Jon.

The haze became less Lonely and more migraine as they approached the house. Squinting against it, Martin couldn’t even argue as Jon got him through the door and took everything from his arms.

“I’ve got this,” he said. “Take off your coat, go sit down.”

Martin obliged as Jon went off to bustle in the kitchen. He hissed as he bent down to unlace his boots, feeling the throbbing much stronger now that he was in a closed, quiet space.

He’d been on the couch for a couple minutes listening to plastic bags rustle and cabinets open and shut, when the kitchen went quiet. Before panic could prick him, Jon poked his head into the living room with a serious expression.

“C-can...can you actually come sit in here?” he asked.

For a moment, Martin just stared.

“I’ll turn off the lights! And I’ll try to be quiet, just…ah, you…” Jon tapped a finger against the wall and sucked his cheek. “I’d feel better. If it’s okay.”

Words failed as Martin nodded. He rose to follow Jon to the little kitchen table and found a cup of water waiting for him. As promised, Jon turned off the light and drew the curtains over the sink, then carefully resumed putting things away.

With a hand against his forehead, Martin’s eyes swept around the room. Jon had the stove lit under two pots. Some leafy herbs and a few sticks of cinnamon sat on the counter next to it. Just as he noticed them, Jon flitted to the stove and dumped the herbs and cinnamon into the smaller pot, then went back to the remaining bags to keep unloading.

This went on as silence hung soft between them. Martin watched Jon wash rice; chop vegetables; stir whatever concoction was in the pot that made the air smell sweet. His head slowly drifted down to the table where his arms rested, but still, he watched.

At one point as Jon stood over a sizzling pan, he finally let his eyes rest back on Martin. Quietly he asked, “Do you need medicine?”

“No. Thank you, just...it usually doesn’t do anything, at this point.”

Jon breathed through his nose; an almost laugh. “I know. Feel bad not offering, though.”

That roused Martin a bit. He knotted his brow and said, “What do you mean ‘you know?’”

“I meant, I don’t usually see you take it. At work. Whenever Tim tried to give you something, you’d turn him down.”

The connections were slow in Martin’s brain. Remembering the times Tim or Sasha would suggest their own cocktails to help his head, and the feeling of shame when he had to brush them off and remind them it didn’t work like that, but thanks anyway. Then the realization that Jon had seen those instances, that Jon remembered them just as well, slowly dawned on him. He didn’t know how to process that. The idea of his cranky boss caring enough to recall his migraines...he let out a dry laugh.

Jon frowned. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just...I’m surprised you even noticed.”

“Of course I--”

Martin watched Jon’s face open in affront, then fade down into something like guilt before he turned to stir whatever he had in the pot.

“I did notice. I get them too, sometimes.”

“I know,” Martin repeated, because it was true. He just never imagined the noticing was mutual.

Jon got a mug from the cupboard and poured the pot into it. He added several spoonfuls of their new bag of sugar, then placed it in front of Martin. He didn’t wait for his reaction before turning back to the stove.

“What’s this?” Martin asked, taking in a deep breath of the steam. Cinnamon, mint...it instantly soothed him. “Is it tea?”

“My grandmother would make it whenever I wasn’t feeling well. Helped my stomach. I, um, I tend to get nauseous when I…” Jon made a motion around his head.

Martin took a sip, and...definitely too much sugar. But the warmth filled him to his toes and brought his eyes to the back of Jon’s head--hair pulled down in a loose, low ponytail as he cooked--and suddenly it all overwhelmed him. Suddenly he was more present than he’d been in years. The pain in his head roiled. Sugar clung gritty to his teeth. He was feeling the hot ceramic in his hands, he was tasting a drink made just for him, he was smelling brown rice just overtaking the cinnamon, he was looking at Jon and taking it all in at once and he was  _ there. _

“We can have something more exciting when you’re feeling better,” Jon was saying as he fluffed the rice. He scooped a helping on two plates and traded the pot for the pan, dishing out vegetables and continuing, “But here, just to get something in you…”

Jon turned with plates in hand and saw Martin crying.

Wordlessly, he rushed the food to the table and kneeled in front of Martin, face opening and hands hovering. Martin’s hands were still clasped around the mug, and he watched Jon’s momentary uncertainty before he closed his own hands over him, drink and all.

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispered right away, all too predictably.

“Don’t.”

“But I  _ am, _ I’m s--” He stopped himself with a sniffle. He couldn’t look at Jon, on eye level with him and intent with worry. His jaw was becoming a locked vice as he held it all back, the dam of feeling that Jon dismantled.

_ Hold me, _ he wished he could say.  _ Like you did last night. You held me together, all my pieces, and I need that again. My head hurts. My stomach hurts. I’m here and it hurts and I love you, and if I could I’d ask you, so please… _

Jon kept searching his eyes, and part of Martin wished he’d Know, hoped he’d look straight into his head at the words he couldn’t say. He lifted one hand to the side of Martin’s head, fingers pressing in the skin behind his ear, and that was what he needed, god, hands and arms and pressure...

“Does it hurt?” he whispered.

He was asking about the migraine, but Martin nodded yes to everything.

“You should eat. I know it’s hard, but it’ll help.” Gently, he took the mug from Martin’s knuckle-white grip. “I’ll stay right here, just try. Just a few bites.”

That finally unhinged him, and Martin was just as surprised as Jon to hear laughter spilling from his own mouth.

“What?” Jon’s concern only swelled. “What is it?”

“It’s just…” Martin wiped a wrist against his cheek, still smiling weakly. “It’s so...so cosmically  _ funny. _ All the times I wanted you to just  _ eat _ something, haha, and n-now…”

Jon frowned with indignation for just a moment, and it made Martin laugh harder. Cry harder. A last-ditch purge of emotion.

It took a while of Jon kneeling and running fingers against his head for Martin to sniff and pick up a fork, at which point Jon pulled the other chair as close as he could to eat alongside him. Slow going, but he managed to finish off most of his plate. All the while Jon kept one eye on him, one hand on his. He knew Jon was right, even if it seemed like the rips inside him couldn’t be stitched with something as simple as stir fried veg. Food just helped.

Once the bulk of rice was cleaned from Martin’s plate, Jon spoke up.

“Do you want to get in bed? Sleep it off?”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”  _ And we haven’t talked. And you’ve done so much for me. And I’m a useless coward. _

Jon paused, then looked at the old cracked clock on the kitchen wall. One eyebrow lifted as he turned back to Martin. “You have somewhere to be?”

And Martin just couldn’t argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turns out writing this has been the most i've ever projected thru my writing lol lol lol lol lol..........writing migraines is something that can be so personal,,
> 
> also that tea is something my husband makes for me when I'm sick, which his mom made for him. it's just fresh mint and cinnamon sticks boiled together, with a lot of sugar. really really nice for stomach aches.


End file.
